About loyalty
by Inuvik
Summary: WD's Zorro. Sequel to "About honor" - Don Diego's adventures in Spain.


_About loyalty_

* * *

_**Madrid, Spain**_

_**December 6**__**th**__**, 1817**_

The vast Plaza Mayor bristled with animation in this cold afternoon of winter. At the heart of Madrid, the three-story buildings, with red brick walls and slate-roofs, that circled the place reverberated each beat of the Madrileños' life since its creation two hundred years ago. From the terrifying cries rising above the burning stakes of inquisition, to the joyful _ole_ of corridas, or the thunderous clapping of spectators watching theater plays, the Plaza Mayor was seldom quiet.

Leaning against a cream-colored pillar of an arch, Diego de la Vega and his friend Marcos de la Callas were glancing with a slight worry at a shop entrance. If the señoritas continued at this pace, they would have to order a second horse-drawn carrier to take them back with all their purchases to their house. Since they had walked out of the tea house an hour and a half earlier, the two sisters methodically screened each stall or store on their path. And as Bernardo had not enough arms and fingers to hold every parcel, their gallantry was now put to test.

"I wonder, Diego, what do you think of replacing Santos with de Baños tomorrow?" Marcos asked loudly to cover the brouhaha of the market occupying the center of the place.

The young don raised a perplexed eyebrow at the question. He had sensed for a moment already that something bothered Marcos. He remained unusually silent each time the ladies dived into a shop.

"By all Saints! Do not tell me Santos found nothing better than to declare a duel a day before our team competition?"

Upon seeing Marcos wincing, the young don let out a long sigh and shook his head in disapprobation.

"Sí, he did. First light of dawn this morning."

"Is he seriously wounded?"

"No. Just the hand."

Diego sighed, not believing his ears. Of course, it was useless to ask on which hand Santos was hurt.

"I guess you were his second, huh? Could you not convince him at least to wait for after the competition?" the young don muttered.

"Diego, a señorita's heart and his honor were at stake," Marcos added, looking serious as he tried to defend their third teammate.

The young don rolled his eyes. And what about his honor to his team?

"Well, I hope it will teach him a lesson," Diego muttered, unhappy.

"Dubious," Marcos replied, shaking his head, "He won both the duel and the lady's heart."

Diego threw both his arms in a sign of giving up.

"So. What about de Baños to replace him?" Marcos asked again.

"I thought he was sick?" Diego replied, uncertain.

At the beginning of the week, de Baños had cancelled his participation in Montega's team because of a bad cold that confined him to bed. As soon as the announcement that his place was available spread, a line-up of young, avid fencers had formed in front of Montega's bedroom at the Royal Academy's living quarters.

"He seemed to feel better this morning."

"You already talked to him, didn't you?"

Marcos smirked, and nodded. The mischievous gleam in his blue eyes did not escape Diego who began to relax, guessing de Baños' answer.

"Montega will be out of his mind when he learns about his defection!" Diego said, even if the word was a bit strong to describe the situation.

Moreover, for having fenced against the man several times in training, he knew a diminished de Baños was anyway better than a perfectly fit Santos. They did not lose at the change.

Tomorrow promised to be quite an exciting day.

"Let's put a term to his majesty's reign, shall we?" Marcos claimed, patting his friend's shoulder just as the señoritas walked out of the jewelry shop.

Like true caballeros, the two young señores headed toward them to pick up their last buys, a genuine smile on their faces. The fact that the added bags were not the most heavy or bulky of the lot was also no stranger to their relief.

Laughing all together, they walked away to join a main avenue and hail a coach. On their heels, Bernardo followed them with difficulty. As they crossed the street, Diego glanced over his shoulder to check how he managed the load, and saw him turning on himself on the other side of the street, lost. Realizing that one of the parcels, in a precarious balance on top of the pile in his arms, kept the mute from seeing his path, Diego hastily headed back to help him, an amused smile on his face.

"Bernardo?" the young don called, waving his arm to attract his attention. But instead of relief, it was a sudden expression of fear that appeared on the mute's face. Diego frowned his trouble that a powerful hand grabbed his collar, and violently dragged him out of a horse-drawn car's way. The young don felt a bump in his back as he knocked into someone and fell hard on the cold cobblestone street.

"Watch out, mi amigo," Marcos said, helping him back to his feet in the middle of the crowd that gathered, "You are not in Los Angeles anymore."

"Diego? Are you all right?" the señorita he accompanied cried as he straightened back up, favoring his right elbow, "What a fright you just gave us!"

"I'm fine, Louisa. Gracias, Marcos," Diego said, a bit shaken as he watched the car moving away without slowing. It must have sprung from a perpendicular street for him not to have seen it coming. A smile appeared on the young don's face as he watched Bernardo crossing the street in haste. With an agility worthy of an acrobat, the latter managed not to drop anything of his precious load.

Just as the mute was about to reach him, a coach stopped next to them.

While Bernardo and the cochero began to secure the bulkiest buyouts on the roof, Diego freed Marcos' hands of his packages so he could help Carla to climb inside the cabin. He moved to the rear to give the parcels to Bernardo when the mute appeared at his side, and clapped his hand over his heart.

"I scared myself too," Diego said as Bernardo pointed with his finger his right arm.

The young don bent his arm, and shook his head, saying, "Nothing serious."

The mute let out a long sigh of relief.

"Diego? Are we going?" Marcos called on the coach's step.

The young don handed the boxes to Bernardo, and pivoted on his heels to head toward the door when he felt a slight bump on his left side. Startled, he saw a ten-year-old boy moving away, and automatically checked his left pocket.

"Not so fast, muchacho!" Marcos cried, stretching a hand to catch the boy by the collar. "Check for your purse, Diego."

"I still have it, Marcos. Let go of him, you are scaring him," the young don said, throwing the shaking boy a peso. With a "Gracias, Señor," the latter quickly ran away.

"If I did not fear your blade, mi amigo, I would tell you the bottom of my mind," Marcos groaned, diving into the coach's cabin.

"A chance you do fear it then," Diego chuckled as he joined his friends.

He knew Marcos thought he was too nice, but he could not keep himself from thinking that life had been even nicer with him. As Fray Felipe often told him, hunger filled a thief's stomach.

"Cochero! Vaya!" Marcos cried, slapping the door with his hand.

When the car stopped forty minutes later in front of the Royal Academy, with Diego now as the lone passenger, the coldness of the night had fallen on Madrid. Perplexed not to see the door opening in front of him, the young don straightened, and stepped out of the coach.

"Cochero?" he asked as he paid the course, "Have you seen my manservant?"

"No, Señor."

Without another word, the man whipped the horses and rode away.

Diego stayed still on the sidewalk exposed to a freezing wind. By all Saints, where was Bernardo?

Madrid's streets were full of road work these times, and the ride had been quite bumpy at moments. Discreet, Bernardo usually preferred to cling or sit on the rear_. _Had he fallen from the car during the trip? Being mute, Bernardo could not have called for help. That thought scared him.

Regretting to have let the car drive away, Diego hastily rushed in the street, deciding to head all the way back to the plaza.

After twenty minutes, the elegant house of the Duke de Tormes, Marcos' great-uncle by his mother's side, appeared at the corner of a street. Diego slowed down his pace, and pondered about knocking at the door to ask Marcos for help. Aware that it must be close to supper, he searched his watch to check the time. A shadow of worry darkened the young don's eyes when his hand hit the bottom of his right pocket without feeling any object. Troubled, he removed his leather glove and checked again. He searched his left pocket and found his purse in it.

Deeply preoccupied, he passed his way, wondering if he could have lost it when he had fallen on the ground earlier.

Ignoring the chilly weather, the young don walked back to the place of his near accident, his mind now occupied by guilt and the memory of his father.

As they were saying farewell to each other, on the dock in Monterey, the old don had given him a last present. The one for his eighteenth birthday for they would not be together to share the joy of the unique moment when a child officially becomes a man. He could still see the mischievous gleam in his father's eyes, a gleam tainted by emotion, as he let him the choice to open it now or to wait fourteen months. Feeling his heart constraining, the young don had promised him that he would wait, and as far as two caballeros in public could allow, they had hugged each other a last time.

He had kept the present sealed for five months, until a night where a strong and large storm had hit the boat in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Upon reading fear on the crew members' faces, he had opened the present in a moment of dreadful uncertainty.

Diego swallowed a lump. Was losing one's present before one's birthday a bad omen?

Considering the activity that prevailed all day in the streets around the plaza, it would be a miracle if he found his watch intact or at all.

Without too much hope, but deciding nonetheless to search, the young don scanned the dark ground where he had fallen a few hours earlier. At once, the image of the child who had bumped into him resurfaced. Though Diego did not completely shake the idea away, the market was a place where pickpockets enjoyed themselves, and he could have been robbed at any time during their visit.

Jaw clenched, Diego headed toward the plaza and continued to search, walking in front of all the stores they had stopped by. In the center of the place, a few merchants were still busy putting their remaining goods into barrows, cleaning the cobblestones at the light of candles. The young don questioned them, giving a description of Bernardo, asking if they had heard about an accident. But only shaking of heads and "No, Señor" sounded.

Sick at heart, Diego finally walked his way back to the Royal Academy, chilled to the bones and his thoughts impregnating with the darkness of the night. Though hungry, he passed by without stopping in front of taverns. A new life slowly animated the streets as young people and couples headed into taverns and restaurants. He did not feel like joining the joyous atmosphere.

When he pushed the door of his small bedroom two hours later, he crashed on his bed, and arms crossed beneath his head, he stared at the ceiling.

Marcos' reservations about employing a beggar without any papers sounded again. According to his friend, there was a non-negligible risk that the mute had only found in him the perfect man to exploit, and rob. Marcos was worried that his good nature would attract him some trouble in a dangerous city like Madrid.

Was Marcos right about Bernardo?

Though he refused to think that the mute could have stolen from him, for the first time since he had left California, the young don felt a twinge of nostalgia seize him.

His sleep was long to come that night.

* * *

"Hey! Diego!"

The young don jumped on his feet before realizing he was awake.

"Marcos?" he asked, blinking to shake his disorientation away.

Why was his friend dressed for fencing?

"By all Saints!" the young don exclaimed, now totally awake, and deeply mortified.

"Quick! Diego! If you don't sign in during the next ten minutes, we will be disqualified."

While Marcos picked up his sword on the wall, the young don quickly grabbed his fencing suit on the back of a chair, grabbed his mask on his desk, and rushed out of his bedroom behind his friend.

Though today's competition was only a preliminary round of the national university championship, it was considered as a good test. This added to the fact that it was being held at the Royal Academy, where the Royal Fencing Cup would be keenly contested in a few months, it always attracted a large crowd of agile fencers from all over the country. With no less than thirty-two teams in line, the arms room was teemed with white outfits when Diego and Marcos pushed the doors, slightly breathless by their fast race through the university campus.

While the clash of swords echoed already, along with cries of joy and of rage, they frayed themselves a path toward the far end. Catching sight of de Baños standing next to tables arranged in a long suite, Diego waved his arm to attract his attention. In reply, the latter waved them to hurry up.

Under the condescending glance of an official, Diego quickly filled the registration sheet just before the end of the regulatory hour.

"Against whom do we begin?" Marcos inquired.

"Track seven, Señores," the official replied with a severe tone, handing them a card with the number written on it. "Rimanez's team is waiting for you."

The three young men rushed all the way back toward the opposite end of the arms room.

"Not so bad to begin with," Marcos said just as Diego tried to hide a yawn. That earned him a reproachful glance. "Are you sure to be awake?" his friend asked.

Not feeling very proud of himself, Diego groaned in answer. Not only he was lacking sleep, but he was also starving. Not a very good way to win a competition, whatever the sport. And certainly not the best way to engage oneself in the intense relay a team fencing competition was. Quickly chaining up the nine short games of five hits was sweat flooding, and as hard for the body as it was for the nerves.

As they arrived at the assigned track, the referee immediately moved toward them. In exchange for the card, he passed them the sheet for the game. While de Baños put on his mask, and placed himself on the engagement line, Diego quickly wrote in which order each of them would fight, and passed the paper back to the referee.

"Señores? Salute. _En_ _garde._ Listos. Ya!"

The first game immediately burst and lasted no more than three minutes. De Baños gave them their first five points out of the forty-five they needed to win. Second fencer Marcos entered on the track, and widened the gap further. Less than four minutes later, the score was ten to six in their favor when Diego put on his mask and saluted his opponent.

But numb on his legs and feeling a certain stiffness in his right arm, he let the adverse team fencer make up their loss. Though still in their favor, the score was fifteen to twelve when he gave back the hand to de Baños.

"What about your arm?" Marcos frowned as he joined him on the side.

"Just a bit sore. It will pass when I get warmer," Diego replied, more worried for his overall lack of energy. He felt like he was walking through cotton. He had to wake up. Quick.

His second fight came fast. It was also no better than the first. Worried, Marcos inquired again about his arm. Diego let him think that it was indeed what was bothering him. But deep within him, the young don sensed that he was just not in today.

At the end of the final game, Diego was angry against himself for his bad performance. Though they finally won the relay, he had not even managed to place the last necessary hit to score forty-five. The referee had stopped the duel with two points in their favor at the end of the regulatory time, forty-two to forty-four.

"Where are you going, Diego?" Marcos asked as he walked away.

"To breathe some fresh air," the young don replied, hoping that the cold wind would whip his body, and give him back the needed energy.

Half way to the doors, he caught sight of Montega fighting on one of the tracks. Just as he passed by him, the man removed his mask with a quick move and uttered a shriek of victory. His most serious opponent seemed in great shape today.

A shudder ran down his spine. By all Saints! He truly had to shake his lethargy away, or else, he did not stand a chance.

Fortunately, he did. Though his arm was still stiffer than usual, he managed to focus enough to make up for his slight handicap. As he entered back in possession of his skills, their team progressed in the competition, and the three fencers began to cheer up.

While the number of teams still in list diminished, the crowd around them grew larger. With a cry of rage, Marcos snatched them the needed point to access the finale. Under a thunderous applause, he shook hands with his opponent, before being dragged away toward a corner of the room by his teammates to decide in which order they would enter on the track.

"Montega will not stand being on the side of the track during the last duel," de Baños said, his voice low, "He's well too used to my blade, we don't stand a chance if I face him then."

"Diego, looks like this is a job for you," Marcos said with a smirk.

The young don nodded.

Ten minutes later, the referee called the first positioned fencers of both teams.

At once, the slight brouhaha that prevailed seized.

Under the tense glances of a hundred people, Marcos entered. At the order to salute, he joined his feet at a perpendicular angle, put his sword just in front of his mask before, like his adversary, raising it above his head. In the total silence, the two fencers then whipped the air from their sword toward the ground.

"_En Garde!_ Listos. Ya!"

The blades clashed loudly.

A growing and electrifying tension seized the arms room as the duels moved on with tight gaps between the two teams. Forty minutes after the first assault, Diego and Montega were called for the last assault. The score was then thirty-six to thirty-eight for Montega's team.

If possible, the silence grew thicker.

Jaw clenched, Diego forced himself to take deep, regular breaths.

"Señores? Salute. _En garde._ Listos. Ya!"

The lightning first assault ended in a double touch so tight that the referee waved his assistants.

While they decided who won the point, Diego moved back to his line of engagement, and caught sight of a movement in the silent crowd. Just as the referee announced he had the point, he saw Bernardo's face appearing behind Marcos' shoulder.

Troubled, Diego put on his mask on his face, and placed himself in guard again.

_Focus! Eight hits to win the fight!_ he called himself back to order.

But the second one was clearly in Montega's advantage. The young don let out a curse, and mentally slapped himself.

In the next assault, he touched his adversary's thigh just before feeling a sharp blow on his solar plexus. As he cringed under the pain, Montega's blade whipped up to hit the bottom of his mask. The edge penetrated below and missed from a hair's breadth to graze his neck.

Furious, Diego moved back to the line of engagement, and as soon as the referee ordered to attack, he lunged forward to whip Montega's hand. Hard enough to cause Montega to let go of his sword. A warning to be careful how he hit next time.

The referee immediately brandished a yellow card to sanction the young don, while in the crowd, an uneasy whisper spread.

That there was no love lost between Montega and him was a notorious fact since the tavern incident. And if Montega had claimed having no responsibility in his subsequent brawl in the alley, two of the attackers nonetheless belonged to his inner circle.

As the young don moved back toward the line, Marcos patted his shoulder.

"Don't let anger get you, Diego. Stay cool and efficient. Go!"

Jaw clenched, the young don nodded and put down his mask over his face. Doing so, he got a clear view on Bernardo, and frowned upon noticing a dressing on his skull. So he was right? Bernardo had fallen from the coach and hurt himself.

"En garde!"

Somehow relieved of a burden, Diego readied himself for the next assault.

After being hit three times in a row, Montega let out a cry of pure ire. A well-channeled ire that allowed him to come back at one point from Diego in the following fights.

On the side of the track, the referee announced the last minute of fight.

"Listos. Ya!"

The assault was rough.

Diego moved forward, lunged, was warded off, retreated to parry, lunged forward again. The blades clashed fast. Both men threw themselves in the battle to snatch the point, raging for victory. Diego pressed his blade against Montega's thigh just as a blow on his side warned him that he had been hit too. A dry clash sounded. Instinctively grasping that a sword had broken, Diego's eyes widened. A sudden searing pain in his left shoulder exploded when he felt the cold blade slicing through his flesh.

His legs buckled. As he fell backward, the acute pain caused by the opposite movement of the blade took his breath away.

Around him, the crowd gasped out of fright.

Blood oozed freely from the wound when Marcos and de Baños appeared on his side, asking him if was all right.

"Help me stand up," he winced, relieved that his mask hid the tears in his eyes.

"Señor de la Vega?" the referee asked, pale, "You should not move, the physician will be here shortly."

"Who hit first, Señor?" Diego asked through clenched teeth.

"Señor Montega lunged to touch you," the man said before informing him that there were twenty seconds left for the duel.

Upon hearing that his opponent had won the point for having made the attack, Diego freed himself from the supporting hands on him. His shoulder throbbing with each breath, he placed himself back in guard. Twenty seconds was all he needed to place a last hit.

In an utter silence, the referee gave the signal.

This time, the blades did not clash against each other. Both opponents went directly for a hit. Diego lunged forward and touched the hollow of Montega's right elbow while he felt a sharp blow on his chest.

The added pain caused a cold sweat to pearl on his forehead.

As the arms room ground waved under his feet, the young don took a deep breath to control the wave of acute pain. Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect. Blocking his breath, he staggered and tried to straighten while a buzzing in his ear deafened him. He closed his eyes briefly to will his dizziness away. A sudden pat on his shoulder made him wince of pain and cringe. Slightly nauseous, he forced his eyelids to spread open, and blinked, blinded by a brightly lit candelabrum above a non distinctive mass of heads.

In his last conscious thought, he wondered why they were mumbling.

* * *

Diego opened his eyes, and stared at the whitewashed ceiling.

Where was the arms room moulding one?

Disoriented, he tried to rise on his elbows to determine where he was. However, a searing pain in his shoulder convinced him to immediately give up this attempt. Upon lowering his gaze on his hurting limb, he then noticed a large bandage immobilizing his whole left side.

_Montega's blade..._

"Hey! Good to see you awake," a voice said near him.

"Marcos?" he frowned, first catching sight of Bernardo, sleeping in a chair at his bedside, before his friend actually appeared in his line of vision on the other side.

"Who else?" his friend chuckled. "How do you feel, mi amigo?"

"Numb. Don't tell me I fainted in front of everybody..." Diego said, trying to sit up.

Stirred out of sleep by their voices, Bernardo leaped to his feet and adjusted the pillow on his back.

"Loss of blood does that. Do not feel ashamed."

"Gracias," the young don said, nodding his gratitude to his manservant. Though he felt relieved to see him, and craved to know what had happened to him, another matter also occupied his mind at that moment.

"Did we win?"

"Yes and no."

At the puzzled look on his face, Marcos chuckled again.

"Montega got the final point, so his team officially won the final. But many of us think that, had you not been injured, you would have been faster than him on that last assault."

"We lost," the young don sighed, disappointed.

"This is a highly debated matter in the corridors as we speak," Marcos said, before rising to his feet, and announcing with a smirk, "I'll let you rest, for I have a mission to accomplish now that you regained your senses."

"A mission?" Diego repeated, intrigued.

"A perilous one if I might add. The one to report to a long list of worried-sick señoritas that you are out of danger."

"You've got to be kidding me," the young don replied with a laugh that ended in a moan of pain.

"Ask Bernardo, if you don't believe me. Both him and de Baños had to block the sickroom door with their own bodies to keep these savage hordes from invading the place for two days! The King's army would certainly benefit from such skills at maneuvering," Marcos told, looking deadly horrified.

Catching sight of his manservant's movements, Diego turned his head toward the mute and saw him miming a brawl before falling to his knees, hands joined, and a fawning smile on his lips. His funny face snatched him another chuckle and wince that promptly stopped the manservant's play.

"Rest well, mi amigo," Marcos said, looking so truly relieved that it worried the young don. "I will come back later to check on you."

As his friend walked away, Diego glanced at his manservant and saw all trace of the previous joy replaced by a deep seriousness.

"I'm fine, Bernardo," the young don said to reassure him, "But tell me, where have you been?"

A smirk of satisfaction appeared on the mute's face as he raised a finger in the air. Intrigued, Diego saw him putting a hand in his pocket, and frowning almost right away. Looking worried, Bernardo tapped his other vest and pant's pockets before pivoting to search around him.

"Have you lost something?" the young don inquired, troubled by the mute's sudden disarray.

Bernardo's brow furrowed. Head slightly tilted, he bent forward, and came closer to examine his bandaged arm. A smile immediately reappeared on the mute's face.

Eyes wide with stupefaction, the young don saw him pulling the first links of a golden chain from below his pillow.

"My watch!" Diego exclaimed as he grabbed his father's present and opened it to check it was still working fine. "Where did you find it?"

Using slow movements, Bernardo explained. The kid who had bumped into him was indeed a pickpocket. And an agile one. Before being caught by Marcos, the boy discreetly gave it to a passerby.

"You ran after him?"

Bernardo nodded, and continued his silent report of the last day's events.

"You took it back... but the man noticed, and ran after you. You escaped and hid for the night."

The mute nodded again, obviously satisfied to be understood.

"What happened to your head?" Diego frowned, pointing the square dressing on his bare skull.

Bernardo crouched and stood up fast.

"Oh! You knocked yourself," the young don said at the mute's grimace of pain as he hunched his shoulders and patted his head.

Sheepish, the mute nodded again.

Relieved of having a weight off his shoulders, the young don shifted on the bed to lie back down. When a moan escaped his lips, Bernardo rushed to adjust the pillows in order to make him more comfortable.

"Gracias," Diego said, feeling a sudden and dull tiredness numbing his senses. Still holding his watch, he closed his eyes and, with a faint smile, he added in a whisper, "Gracias for everything, mi amigo."


End file.
